I had to buy a special present for somebody a couple of days ago. In fact, it was yesterday. So I went to good’ol Peter Jones where I rightly suspected it might be quiet and tolerable. Nothing worse than a packed shop, even for tallish folk like me. As my Godmother once said to me, “never underestimate other people’s stupidity” and so it has come true. Of particular annoyance lately are those cretinous fools at the top of escalators who, with great force, slam on their brakes leaving you to back-peddle and cause people behind you to do the same.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to take any deep breaths or even restrain myself – it was cool, quiet and pleasant. However, like most blokes who venture into the dark, mysterious world of “shopping”, I failed spectacularly. If there was an award for Most Hopeless Shopper, I’d be well up there with a chance of presenting the award the following year, or gaining presidency of People Who Hate Shopping Anonymous.
Wandering around with a constant frown creasing my forehead, all the ideas and thoughts which I’d painstakingly scrutinised over had, suddenly, vanished. Twice I was asked if I needed any help, to which the first time I replied “Oh no! Ohh no, I’m just browsing. Thanks” and the second “Why is everything so expensive?” And it’s true. Why is everything so expensive? I saw a fork for Â£8. I could make an entire set for that money.
This is all by-the-by, as usual. After sending the lifts up to the top-floor like the four-year-old which I pretend I’m not, I escaped into London’s concrete radiator for a stroll round Sloane Square. It’s not my type of area if I’m brutally honest, but actually I warmed to it with the near-constant presence of half-naked Sloanies. Everywhere, they were; jumping in, and out, of their Chelsea Tractors and generally having a rah rah lovely time of it.
I then found this street, a cobbled mews with old, restored garage-doors and great (and not so great) cottages. Like something out of Dickens. You don’t see that much in London. Sure enough two of the garages had been ripped out by a particularly chic-looking designer store, who surely can’t gain many visitors tucked away so far from the high street. It was a flipping great street to live in, I imagined – and it’s name?
Pavilion Street. Clearly I’m destined to live there.
If any of you do live there, and/or have a 2-bed place nearby to rent to me for about Â£500/month (each), let me know. I’m a brilliant tenant, fabulous cook and sometimes drink beer.
Any cricketing streets near you?